Some Enchanted Morning

An acquaintance asked me this morning how things are going with my divorce. I told him that nothing has changed, that things are largely out of my control. He told me I should get a hobby. Interesting advice.

At first, I got defensive. "I have plenty of hobbies," I insisted, a hint of a whine creeping into my voice.

He looked skeptical. "Why don't you train for a marathon or something?"

Or something. My body parts ache way too much to even consider the marathon, but he certainly got me to thinking. Maybe sitting on my ass eating bonbons and waiting for my life to pass out of limbo and into abject poverty and despair isn't the best hobby after all. Maybe this guy has a point.

But what's a fifty-one year old pre-menopausal woman to do? I could write a blog, but I already do that, and that's really less of a hobby than an obsession. I could take up sky diving, but I'd like my new hobby to be something a bit more challenging, something that gets the heart pounding a bit harder than it would from merely jumping out of a plane or sitting around waiting for a divorce to be finalized.

Thank goodness for Google. Within seconds, I was directed to an article about hobbies for women, a piece offering twenty-seven potential pastimes guaranteed to make me more interesting and charismatic, to take me out of my comfort zone. Honey, if this is a comfort zone, take me away.

Cooking and singing were the first two suggestions on the list. I have tried both, with little success. Jogging? Been there, done that. Yoga? Wow -- why haven't I thought of that? Candle making? Are ya kiddin me? I fast forwarded through the article, desperately seeking something that might spark my interest.

There it was, item number eleven: belly dancing. According to the hobby maven, this would help bring me "closer to my inner goddess," and "increase my feminine radiance and beauty." Best of all, it might "enchant and captivate men." Sold!

I decided to try out my new hobby at home, before wasting money on lessons. I rolled down the waistband of my sweats, tucked my torn tee shirt into my bra, turned on some music, and prepared to enchant Manny. What does it mean when a blind dog covers his eyes with his paws?

Maybe I'll train for that marathon after all.